


HYDRAte

by Nny



Series: 2019 Valentine's Requests [3]
Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 21:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17795309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: It was maybe the hottest day of the year yet, the kinda day that every sane person spent firmly indoors, so naturally this was the day that Tash wanted to meet him - in a damned coffee shop, no less.





	HYDRAte

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1electricpirate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1electricpirate/gifts).



The subway rocked to a stop and the doors hissed open, letting in a rush of air that was no cooler or fresher than what there already was. Clint shouldered past the asshole in the doorway who didn’t seem inclined to let anyone on or off, jogging up the stairs in the hopes that closer to the surface there might be  _some_  kind of breeze.

Summer was laying on the city like a blanket, heavy and scratchy and cutting off all the air. Clint had started getting up at five in the morning, as it was the only time Lucky wouldn’t balk at leaving the apartment. The rest of the day was always built up of siestas and miserable wilting, the ancient air conditioner clattering grumpily in the window.

(Clint was working on updating the building, starting with the high risk tenants first. Naturally he was last on the list; he figured he’d be getting himself a new unit sometime after the world boiled to death, but Simone sometimes let him chill on her sofa for a bit if he looked pathetic enough.)

It was maybe the hottest day of the year yet, the kinda day that every sane person spent firmly indoors, so naturally this was the day that Tash wanted to meet him - in a damned coffee shop, no less.

As far as Clint was concerned, coffee shops were for all the seasons that weren’t futzin’ _Summer_. Coffee shops were for sweater weather, comfortable armchairs and curling hands around cardboard. Clint didn’t have any time for iced coffees, and anything with less caffeine than an Americano could frankly take a flying leap, so summer was mostly spent grimly chugging back energy drinks and waiting until the evening was cool enough to justify brewing a pot.

Natasha was an immovable object, though, and Clint was adorable but he wasn’t anything close to an irresistible force. So he was dragging himself across the city, frequently checking the directions on his phone, and silently cursing Natasha’s name with every sweat-soaked step.

Brooklyn was practically part of his territory, the streets familiar under his feet, so it was a surprise that this wasn’t somewhere he’d ever been before, tucked in beside a narrow brick-lined alleyway and down a flight of concrete stairs. Ivy hung down from the black iron railings at street level, cutting off a little of the bustle and noise, and somehow the light well wasn’t swimming in trash from the street above. Someone clearly cared for this place; that or they had scared the neighbourhood into submission.

_HYDRATE_  was etched into the glass, white against dark, but the T and the E were incongruously faded. Clint pushed open the door and let it shut behind him, tipping his head back a little in bliss at the blast of frigid air from the unit just above the door.

It took him a while for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, and once they did he was distracted from looking for Natasha by the sheer weirdness of the place.

Instead of pale beige, the walls were painted black; instead of arty black and white pictures of coffee beans and foam there was the work of local artists on the wall. Not the friendly inoffensive ones, though, with the landscapes and butterflies and differently sized synonyms for nice. These were - they were fascinating, and they were kinda beautiful, but there were an awful lot of skeletons and pretty liberal use of red. Rather than conversational groups of armchairs there were a few booths along the wall - dark red vinyl and metal grating - and several lone wing backed chairs with a standard lamp by each, the tables by them covered with discarded books with more on shelves along the walls. The music was soft and something about it made the hair stand up on the back of Clint’s neck; it reminded him of the classier horror movies he’d seen.

Altogether the place kinda looked like a collaboration between Tim Burton and Guillermo del Toro, and Clint could see why Natasha thought it was kind of neat.

He wandered over to the bar that ran along one side of the shop, the surface made of what looked like carefully arranged coffee grinder blades set in a display case and covered with clear resin. The guy who stood behind it was wearing a lopsided smirk, long hair swept to one side and shaved close to his skull on the other; his shirt said I AM THE FUCK in big white letters and Clint could sure as hell believe it. He had his hands tucked into his pockets, but the sleeves of his shirt had been ripped off, and one arm had a full sleeve tattoo, interweaving images and colours that Clint would like to spend at least a week studying.

His other arm was made of metal.

He was possibly the sexiest thing Clint had ever seen.

“Something cold and not coffee, please,” he said, “and the cheat sheet for charming the hell out of you, if you’ve got one.”

“Up up,” the guy said, “down down, left right -”

Clint snorted out a laugh. “No way you’re old enough to remember that shit.”  

“I’m older than I look, gramps,” he said. “Old enough to teach you a thing or two.”

“Not sure if chat up line or threat of violence,” Clint said, narrowing his eyes, and the guy cocked his head and looked him up and down, considering.

“Could go either way,” he said. “Gimme some time to decide.”

Clint grinned.

“Well for the record I have been described by several reliable witnesses as ‘somehow charming’ and ‘just about bearable’, so prepare yourself to be wooed.”

“I’ll try to keep hold of my pants,” he said, deadpan, and rolled his eyes when Clint shot finger guns at him, backing right into a wing backed chair.

“I leave you alone for five minutes,” Natasha said from behind him, and Clint turned his kinda stunned grin on her.

“Hey Tash,” he said, “what d'you think of taking someone rollerskating for a first date?”

 

 


End file.
